Never believe me when I say The Spring would be less fair without you; Be warned -- there is no permanence In anything I say about you. When April nights are warm and sweet, Never believe my bed is narrow; Nor that the Spring means less to me Than to the crocus of the sparrow. When pussy-willows come to birth, A faithful heart is much too solemn For dancing underneath a tree With wet bark like a fluted column. Never believe that it is prayer That breaks my intermittent slumber; I am not one of those who wake To scourge themselves, times without number. And if at last you see me walk Through fields that grew too late for reaping, Between two rows of naked stalks, Never believe that I am weeping. |